Repercussions
by Avenginghunters
Summary: James T. Kirk is leader of a small group of very capable criminals whose only victims are a vicious gang they've all been affected by at one point or another.
1. Jim Kirk Does Not Knock

Bones flinched wildly and nearly shattered his favorite glass as two men burst through his front door. He had one luxury dammit, and that was a tall glass of sweet tea before bed, uninterrupted.

"Sorry, Bones. Our new guy got a little overzealous." Jim Kirk limped across Bones's kitchen floor, helping a more severely hurt boy to the only chair at the table. Of course it was Jim, the bastard never had the common courtesy to knock. The thin, curly-haired young man he half-dragged across the kitchen floor was groaning and clutching his leg as soon as he was seated. A deep gash across his forehead told Bones that he would probably be giving stitches before the night was over. Who knows what else was wrong with him.

He sat the cold glass down and made his way to the bathroom. There were enough stolen medical supplies stashed in the small bathroom to run an emergency room for a few days. Dozens of different pills in the medicine cabinet, bandages and dressing behind his towels, an AED strapped to the wall, and a myriad of other supplies scattered about the other rooms in his small home.

He came back with rubber gloves, a pen light, and a few pills for the poor kid's obvious pain.

"Just relax. Jim, help me get him on the table." Bones ordered. Jim grabbed the kid under his arms and Bones took him under the knees. He took the chance to observe Jim's physical state. Their leader wouldn't ever dream of asking for medical attention before anyone else in the group, but Bones knew a little something about dealing with unruly patients. He appeared fine, and the kid was losing quite a bit of blood from some type of laceration on his stomach.

"Jim, get me some water and give him these. How old are you, kid?" he was trying to keep the boy calm and check him for possible concussion. Not knowing anything about him wasn't going to help him give the best care he could either.

"17, sir."

"Oh good, he's seventeen." Bones turned momentarily to glare at Jim for bringing someone so young into their lives. It wasn't a place for kids. Hell, it wasn't even a place for adults. You didn't know if every job you agreed to was going to be your last.

Jim shrugged. "He said he wanted in. I wasn't going to discriminate." He explained. The kid swallowed the pills and lay as still as can be expected with Bones shining a light in his eyes and Jim trying to distract him with the worst anecdotes that Bones had ever heard.

"What's your name, son?" he continued the questioning. The pupils were normal, but it wouldn't hurt to examine his head further.

"Pavel Andreievich Chekov**" **Bones heard a slight accent in the Russian words, and assumed that Chekov was as Russian as his name. He didn't feel any large bumps or bloody wounds concealed by the boy's thick hair.

"Jim, put some pressure on his head wound. He isn't concussed, but that'll have to be sewed up or it'll scar pretty bad." He was content with the state of Chekov's melon and moved onto his breadbasket. Blood thoroughly soaked the fabric just above his belly button.

"What exactly happened?" Bones asked as he wiped away blood as gently as he could. The wounds in the kid's stomach were slash marks as opposed to stab wounds and weren't gaping . They would only need some disinfecting and bandaging. He set about finding his iodine and stitching supplies for the facial wound that was gaping above the eyebrow.

"Sulu was standing watch, Uhura had rewired the security cameras to give us the standard five foot clearance to the office, Scotty had the car running. That left Chekov, and I to do the actual extraction. We got to the office, but there were three security guards inside. I told him that it could wait until the next day when we knew security wasn't so tight. He said he could handle himself if I could. We took the opportunity and it turns out those bastards are much more experienced than I could have guessed."

"And where was Spock?" he asked. The inscrutable bastard was usually within a few feet of Jim during jobs. Helped keep Jim's impulsive genius down to manageable levels.

"Spock got pinched after accidentally using a couple of fake hundreds at the ammunition supply depot. Cops have him detained on charges of counterfeiting, but they've got nothing substantial. He's not one to give up any evidence under pressure either." Jim didn't look worried about Spock, but justice around their neck of the woods wasn't exactly just all the time, and evidence could be "found" long after the discovery of a crime.

"Dammit, Jim." He muttered. Chekov was ready for bandaging, looking drowsy and befuddled from the drugs. Bones quickly wrapped clean bandages around the kid's midsection before pronouncing that part of the body sufficiently cared for. He'd have to be careful for a while, but the injuries would heal well.

"I'm gonna give you a local anesthetic and patch up your face, Chekov." Bones lifted the cloth Jim had been holding against Chekov's wound off. It had stopped bleeding for the most part. He prepared the shot of anesthetic and administered it as quickly as he could. He was always surprised at who reacted badly to needles and who didn't. The kid was practically gone to the world and didn't even flinch when the needle broke skin.

The leg pain that Chekov had been showing signs of was not serious, and was caused by severe bruising around the ankle.

When Chekov was patched up, Jim and Bones supported him on his short walk to Bones's room. He was used to sleeping on the couch from the last few rough months with his wife. He gave the kid one of his t-shirts to sleep in and flipped the lights off.

"Just holler if you need anything." He closed the door behind him.

"Well thanks for dropping off a hurt kid, Jim. Always nice to see a friend." Bones joked as he disposed of the gloves he'd worn. The kitchen was a bloody mess that would take a good half an hour to whip back into shape. Jim didn't reply, only looked thoughtfully at the blood spilled on the linoleum floor. Bones groaned. That was his "I want to talk about something that's probably going to send you to an early grave" face. Between checking up on Chekov , the evils of the lumpy living room couch, and whatever scheme Jim had cooked up, he could kiss a good night's sleep goodbye.

Bones began his cleaning, content to let Jim either stew in whatever plan he was concocting or spit it out. Their leader never needed much prodding to suggest some plan crazier than a rattler's backside.

"I think we need a home base." Jim picked up a rag and began cleaning the blood off the kitchen table.

"Do you now?"

Jim nodded, unaffected by his sarcasm. He motioned for Jim to continue, an unnecessary gesture, but he wanted to get to sleep sooner rather than later.

"There would be room enough for everyone, room for the merchandise before we can get it to the fence, and the neighborhood isn't the chatty kind. It would keep everyone on the same page, and it'd bring down the cost of rent for everyone." Jim rung out the cloth in the sink and stopped Bones from cleaning anything else. "So what do you think?"

He pondered the idea in the silence that fell after Jim's proposal. A base of operations wasn't a terrible idea. They would be more organized, making blunders like Spock accidentally using fake hundreds a lot easier to prevent. He would also be able to keep tabs on the crew's health a lot easier. Some of them didn't have the sense god gave a horse when it came to resting and not pushing your body past its limits. He hadn't lived with more than one other person since he was an undergrad though. Just his wife, and then alone for two years. He came to a decision.

"You should ask the rest of the crew, but a headquarters doesn't sound like the worst plan you've ever come up with. We can start looking after you've asked the rest of the crew."

Jim smiled a smile that Bones knew meant trouble. Jim began running for the door, shouting on his way out.

"I've already bought the place. We'll be by to get you at noon tomorrow." Bones rolled his eyes and kept on cleaning. He should have known.


	2. Chekov is a Terribbly Impatient Patient

Chekov woke up at 5:15 that morning and insisted that he be allowed to leave with no further ado. After several stern looks and mild threats, Bones managed to get the kid to rest until 10:00.

"Sir, I am fine. It was only a few scratches." Chekov began pulling his boots on and collecting the bloody t-shirt that Bones had bagged.

"Now hold on there, son. You got pretty banged up. Just let me make sure you're still alright. And don't call me sir." Bones managed to get the boy to lay down on the couch and sit still long enough for him to replace the bandages on his stomach and check out his head wound. Both of them were perfectly fine, and his ankle, while bruised, did not appear to be getting any worse.

"Are you a real doctor?" Chekov asked before Bones could even pronounce him well enough to go home.

"That's a loaded question. If you mean do I have the knowledge of a doctor, then the answer is yes. I don't practice medicine professionally anymore, but I do know enough to patch up knuckleheads like you and Jim." Bones replied straining at a smile. He missed being a legitimate doctor at times, but the group of thieves he'd fallen with needed a good doctor, and there he was.

"You're fine to go, but let me give you some advice. Get as far as you can from this line of work. It may look like it's fun and exciting, but you could die. Do you understand?" Chekov stood, flinching and clutching his stomach, but never taking his eyes away from Bones.

"I am not doing this because I think it is fun. I am helping my family. We are very poor and we do not yet have citizenship. The school I am going to is understanding, but my mother is finding it difficult to find a job. I need this." Chekov put on his second boot and began hobbling out the door before Bones could even begin to form a reply.

He grumbled about the blood on his sheets, but couldn't find it in his heart to put any malice behind the words. The boy was doing it for good reasons, but that didn't stop the concern from making its way to the front of his thoughts.

Bones brewed himself a strong cup of coffee before settling down with the morning paper. Any day when he was out with Jim and the rest of the crew was an exhausting one and he liked to relax as much as possible before the maelstrom hit.

"Looks like they're at it again." He mumbled to himself. A gang killing. 4 men dead and a child in critical after being caught in the crosshairs. Kid was expected to live at least. He wadded up the newspaper, willing the tears and memories away. He didn't have the time, the desire, or the temperament to break down ever, but there he was about to cry like a nitwit. His damn coffee was going to get cold.

It had been three years since his life was torn apart. Four desperately wounded men had come into the hospital. Stabbed nearly to death and beaten to within an inch of their lives. He did his best, but the youngest of them, a boy around 17 or 18, died on the operating table. He notified the kid's parents and prepared to break the news. It was chaos. Crying and screaming and general havoc as the kid's family, a well-known crime family, descended upon the hospital. They wanted heads to roll and Leonard McCoy was at the top of the list. He got paranoid and stopped leaving the house, started getting nightmares about them exacting revenge. His wife left him and took everything. Changed the locks on the house. The whole nine yards. The isolation made him dangerous. Made him darker and more cynical than he ever thought he was capable of being, and then came James Kirk.

Bones was pulled out of his mind by a loud crash as his front door knocked loudly against the wall, and then the squeaky sounds of several pairs of boots on his freshly cleaned floors. "Damn kids." he grumbled. They were nearly as bad as Jim. Jim, Uhura, Sulu, Scotty, and Chekov streamed in through the front door, laughing and tracking in god knows what.

"We found Chekov hobbling his way home this morning. What kind of ship are you running here, Mr. McCoy?" Jim teased, ruffling the Russian's curls before stealing an apple off of Bones's counter.

"It wasn't me that wanted him gone. Little blight wouldn't take no for an answer." Bones pulled his shoes and coat on before shooing everyone out of his kitchen. If his neighbors kept seeing people barging in through his door they might get the idea that he was sociable, and that was not something he would be able to live with.


End file.
